Cheating
by Kagu-tsuchi-13
Summary: Quinn knew that sneaking around was wrong. And she knew that Rachel would eventually find out the truth. If only Noah wasn't so good at what he did.


It had been long over due that Quinn Fabray and her girlfriend of over two years—Rachel Berry—needed to take the plunge and move in together. It meant no more hellish commutes and, of course, sex whenever they pleased. (Actually, whenever Rachel pleased. Though Quinn would never come right out and admit that, not without at least 250mL of Bacardi in her system, anyway.)

Still, in spite of that logic, Quinn found that they never discussed the prospect of sharing a place. That was until...

There they were at the Sunday brunch that Kurt had been hosting. He had just served his world famous (his words) mushroom and goat cheese tarts when the conversation suddenly shifted from mid-western nineteenth century interior decorating to the fact that Blaine finally got all his boxes unpacked and situated. That wouldn't have been such a big deal, had it not been for the fact that he had been living with Kurt for eight months now.

Now you would think that it would have just been mildly interesting small talk that would kill a few minutes while waiting for the host—who had been experimenting with a German recipe book—to take his rouladen out. Instead, Rachel—in between fits of picking the goat cheese out of her tart—said to Quinn:

"_Why are we not living together? Are you not happy in our relationship? Is this your way of saying that I am just a way for you to pass the time? If you want to break up with me just say it!"_

Yes, even though Rachel had never brought up the notion of living together—not even during the numerous times that they walked through the furniture department at the mall—it was somehow all Quinn's doing. But Quinn knew better than to argue—lest she spend a lonely weekend with her laptop and vibrator. So she admitted that she was afraid of taking the plunge, but Blaine's bold testament at having the courage to finally take the plunge and adhere to Kurt—both physically and emotionally—by unpacking that last box was the stepping stone that she needed to overcome the mental stigma and make a lasting commitment to one Rachel Barbra Berry.

This was of course all bullshit. Quinn knew that Blaine was just lazy. More importantly, she knew that she had no problems living with Rachel, having tolerated Rachel's numerous "quirks" for many a year—dating back as far as when they were rivals both in glee and for the affections of one Finn Hudson. (Rather ironic that he ended up the only loser in that scenario.)

But Rachel ate it up—as opposed to Kurt's veal and sauerkraut goulash that she wouldn't touch, because veal was the cruelest of all meats—and before Quinn knew it, she was saying goodbye to the two stoners that she illegally subleted with and hello to a tiny one bedroom apartment in west Willamsburg. (The large amount of crime and hipsters made the rent surprisingly affordable.)

It was rough at first—what with the situating and such. The small size of the place and the large amount of things that the two accumulated over the years really piled up when schlepped together.

But they compromised.

Now an outsider may think that Rachel kept all her things while Quinn was forced to put the majority of her stuff in storage (the stuff that no one on craigslist would buy), but they would be wrong. And Rachel was right—that plaid quilt and lava lamp did clash with the decor.

And after that, things were smooth sailing.

Then it started.

Quinn found that there was something missing from her life—something that Rachel couldn't provide—something that Quinn desperately needed.

And wouldn't you know it that Noah Puckerman—aka her ex and the father of the child that she gave up—was conveniently there, offering to give her that something.

Quinn refused...several times in fact. But the void just kept growing and growing—like an open wound that was left untreated.

And from her experience in picking scabs that her mother ordered her to leave alone (and you probably think that this was back when she was five or six, but it actually happened last Thanksgiving), she knew that it was not going to heal if provoked.

Looking back, it made Quinn realize that it probably wasn't a good idea to personally tell Puck—at his apartment—that she was never in a billion years going to be unfaithful to the girl that she one day hoped to wed and have little Rachels and Quinns with. But to be fair, no sane girl could have turn _that _down; not when it was all all out in the open like that.

She felt bad afterwords—worse than the time that she cheated on Sam with Finn or Finn with Puck. And she assured both herself and Puck that their encounter would be the first and last.

It was just like the many other claims that she had heard: I can so eat just one piece of cake; this is the only beer that I will drink tonight; I am only going to do four, maybe five lines of coke. Quinn managed to keep her promise as well as all of them did.

She knew it was wrong on many levels. And even more importantly, she knew that Rachel would do unspeakable things if she ever found out that twice a week she had been sneaking away to be with him. But she couldn't help herself; it was too damn good.

Tonight had been one of said encounters. Quinn had been extra fidgety all throughout it; something that did not go unnoticed by Puck. He even stood outside the bathroom while she washed away the shame and did just the tiniest bit of weeping uncontrollably.

"This is the last time," she said to him, having just finished cleaning herself up to the best of her ability. She had spent an especially long time making sure that she didn't have a Puckerman smell. That would be the first thing that Rachel picked up on. (And that was not a big nose joke; those were Santana's forte.)

"That's what they all say. And yet, they keep coming back for second helpings of the Puckster," he responded, the smugness in his voice apparent.

"Please quit flattering yourself, _Noah_." Doing one last routine check over in the mirror and seeing that she was presentable but not overly done to draw suspicion, she walked out of the bathroom, pushing past her arrogant host as she did so.

She had been in the process of putting on her tennis shoes when she heard: "Come on, Q, you know you like what I do."

"Can we please not talk about this? I feel bad enough already," she said, keeping her gaze on the hole in her right tongue. Once laced and double knotted, she grabbed her coat and oversized hat off the recliner that they had been tossed on, still keeping her gaze away from _him_.

She had just put her hand on the door knob when she stopped and took one last look around—even though she knew every inch of the place—from the unidentifiable reddish-brown stain on the carpet to the fist sized hole in the wall that Puck had put after his "hot stock market tip" proved wrong and he was stuck with six hundred near useless shares of MetroPCS. Quite the memories.

"Same time next week?" he asked, just as she turned the knob and it made that clicking sound.

"I'll check my calendar." She left before he could respond, taking huge strides down the three flights of rickety stairs, feeling a strong sense of regret and deep seated hatred of herself. And call it a hunch, but she doubted that she was the first—nor would she be the last—that left his place with these feelings.

* * *

The walk of shame: taking all your humiliation and broadcasting it so everyone could see.

Quinn held her oversized hat—the same one that she wore the day she first asked out Rachel—down over her face in a futile attempt to avoid the glares and gawks that she was getting from the pedestrians that were walking by. For all the good it was doing she might as well had a giant scarlet A plastered to her jacket.

They knew.

_Damn society and it's fucked up double standards, _she thought, feeling that their looks would be different if she was a man.

Once she was outside the building, she took a moment to regain her composure before trotting up the numerous steps till she stood in front of 4C.

4C—the home that she shared with her loving and very understanding girlfriend—who would probably be okay with this.

In the midst of telling herself that blatant lie, the door knob began turning, first clockwise, then counterclockwise, then back to clockwise. It was almost a warning—as if saying: "Get the fuck out while you still can."

But Quinn did not heed that warning; a decision she soon regretted when she found herself being catechized by a pair of chocolate brown eyes so piercing they would have made Medusa turn herself to stone to escape their chastisement.

"Another evening with Puckerman?" said the voice of her interrogator, though Quinn knew that she knew and was just giving her the third degree to make her uncomfortable...and succeeding.

"Quiet," Quinn hissed, pushing past her soon to be ex-best friend. "You will wake Rachel." Rachel's afternoon nap—brought on by exhaustion thanks to that Casandra bitch working her harder than anyone—was the only reason that Quinn likened that she hadn't been caught.

"Berry isn't here. She went shoe shopping with Twinkle Toes," Santana informed, slamming the door with her boot covered foot.

Quinn exhaled the breath that she had been holding in. "Thank god." She made her way over to the cabinet and began rummaging around for a clean glass. "That was a close one."

"You know she is going to find out eventually. I heard that Hobbits have real good tracking senses."

Quinn rolled her eyes; three years out of high school and Santana was still cracking jokes at Rachel's expense. And they were the same kind—mildly funny if you heard it once, not at all funny when you heard it a thousand and four times.

She chose not to reply to her friend's unwitty remark and opened the refrigerator, thus beginning the tedious task of rummaging around for the milk. Rachel tended to push it towards the back, as if it could jump out of the jug and down her throat if she got too close to it.

"Toss me a can," Santana called out from the dining room—actually just a poker playing table that was stuck in between the kitchen and living room. Just one of the many tribulations of being a poor college student.

Quinn shot her a glare but reluctantly grabbed one of the last remaining cans of Bud Lite and tossed it in Santana's direction—possibly having the intention to conk her friend on the head with it. She often felt like asking Santana to chip in on expenses, seeing as most of the beer and some of the groceries seemed to disappear whenever Santana invited herself over.

"So you and Brittany still on the rocks?" she asked, lifting up the foil on the casserole that her mother left on her last visit. (Got to love her mother wanting to make sure that she was being fed, since she was convinced that the "rabbit food" that Rachel prepared every night would starve her precious daughter.)

When Santana didn't respond, Quinn averted her gaze from the almost empty two liter of orange Sunkist (which was full this morning) and looked to her friend who had gone quiet. Santana, who looked to be having a starring contest with her can, finally popped the tab, letting the foam spew out a bit before raising it to her lips and taking a loud gulp. This was followed by loudly slamming the can on the table—loud enough that Quinn could hear it even over the buzzing of the fridge. "We are working on it."

Scoffing at her long drawn out response, Quinn resumed her search for liquid refreshment. When she saw no milk (and likened that Santana's unannounced visit had something to do with its sudden disappearance), she grabbed the cranberry juice out of the side door and headed over to the table, stopping to grab a clean (by her standards) gas station cup that was sitting on the counter. "You should really forgive her. So what if she totaled your car and then lied to your insurance company about it. Anyone could have made that mistake," she assured, plopping down in one of the three chairs that her and Rachel owned—all that were found on the curb and rigorously sterilized.

"I guess," Santana half-heartily replied while swishing around the liquid in her can. Quinn figured that there was more to the story than what Santana had told her but had decided to let Santana bring it up on her own accord; providing she ever said more than two words about Brittany that wasn't thinly veiled bragging about their rigorous, porn-star like sex life.

When it became obvious that Santana wasn't going to speak again, Quinn filled up her cup and took a drink, swishing the juice around, letting the bitter taste of the cranberries hit her taste buds. The bitter taste was surprisingly soothing, often being used as a make shift substitute for alcohol when money was so tight that she couldn't even afford the cheapest forty that the gas station offered.

In between sips, she stole another glance at Santana—who looked far more agitated than originally perceived. Quinn considered telling Santana that things would be okay but refrained; she had been doing enough lying as it was.

* * *

"How was your afternoon class?" Rachel asked, sticking out her head from the door of the cramped bathroom, her face covered by some kind of cream that bore an uncanny resemblance to the guacamole that Mrs. Lopez made—and would not share the recipe with, no matter how many times Quinn begged.

"Same old, same old," Quinn responded uninterestedly. She finished clipping her toenails and gathered all the clippings into a pile before sweeping them off the bed and into the plastic Walmart bag that served as a trash can. If only toenail clippings were currency like on Ahh! Real Monsters.

She heard some water running, which meant that Rachel was almost done with her nightly rituals and would be coming to bed soon. That was Quinn's cue to get under the covers and hope that Rachel just wanted to spoon tonight; the encounter with Puck had left her more than drained.

By the time that Quinn heard the bedside lamp flick off and the the thumping sound that was made when a skinny body came into contact with a worn out mattress (worn out in the sense that it was old, though their nighttime activities had contributed some as well), she was already rolled onto her side and fake snoring to give the illusion that she immediately conked out.

"You know," Rachel practically whispered, her hot breath beating against the back of Quinn's neck, making the tiny hairs stick up. "I don't have any classes tomorrow morning."

Knowing that Rachel saw through her charade, Quinn shifted her body away from Rachel before she succumbed to temptation—the good, non-adulterous kind. "Guess you can sleep in then."

"Yeah, now if only I had something to make me drowsy."

By this point it was blatantly obvious what she was suggesting. But Quinn was not about to conceive defeat. She could act her way out of it. If not she was seriously wasting thousands of dollars of her mom's money for tuition.

"You got a carton of that Silk crap in the fridge. And I think there is still some NyQuil left. But I would save that. Flu season is right around the corner." After this was said, Quinn raised herself up completely to observe her girlfriend's reaction, taking notice of the lack of nightgown straps on Rachel's shoulders. Even though the only light in the the room came from the sole window, it was plain as day that Rachel, who at first had a smile, was now sulking as if she had just been told that she would never amount to more than a second string chorus member in an off Broadway production of Mamma Mia.

"Well..." was all Rachel said, after several intense seconds of silence.

"Babe, I am sorry," Quinn said sincerely. "I am just really tired. Work was a bitch today. I got stuck doing Johnson's work after he called in sick. Even though everyone knows that he had Knicks tickets." That part was true. She did get stuck doing Johnson's work. When you were the assistant manager and spoiled son of the owner of the second rate doughnut shop that she worked at you could get by with shit like that. If not for the fifty percent discount on all day old non-jelly and custard filled, she would have quit six months ago.

Quinn waited attentively for Rachel to say something...anything, while silently praying that she didn't ask any followup questions. It would be hard to explain what she did to destress after having that hellish day. More-so, it would be hard to make a break for the door while dodging whatever Rachel would be throwing at her. When angered, Rachel had a pitch that rivaled that of New York Yankees star CC Sabathia.

"I'm sorry," Rachel finally said, surprising the hell out of Quinn. She could only sit in awe as she felt Rachel pull her into a tight embrace, her skinny arms wrapped firmly around Quinn's lat area. "I am so selfish. Here you are doing manual labor so that we can one day get a nicer place, and all I can think about is my own selfish desires."

Quinn's only thought—other than Rachel's semi-hard nipples feel really nice even through a thick blanket—was that she was the worst girlfriend ever. Rachel shouldn't feel guilty—not for this anyway.

Nothing was said after that. They just sorta fell back onto the bed—Rachel never letting go or even loosening her grip. Quinn eventually did fall asleep, though not right away. For a very long time, she was stuck lying in complete silence, being forced every few seconds to hear one of Rachel's tiny breaths—a normally soothing sound that now felt like a kick in the face by one of those UFC fighters.

What a corner she had painted herself into.

* * *

Days later, Quinn was sitting down with her breakfast and the neighbors paper that she hoped to read, slip back in the plastic, and set back on the door, just like she did everyday. She forced another spoonful of oatmeal in her mouth, chasing it down with some of her lukewarm coffee. She hated oatmeal in both taste and texture, but it was filling, and more importantly, cheap.

She was about to get up and refill her coffee when was alerted to the fact that Rachel was done with her morning cardio.

No, Quinn could not see her—Rachel exercised in the bedroom, using the same elliptical machine that she used as a teenager. But Quinn could smell her. Rachel tended to get a little...ripe when she exercised. Not that it was a problem for Quinn. Quite the contrary. She loved it when Rachel got all musky; especially the times when Rachel hopped in the shower afterwords and needed Quinn to wash her aching muscles.

The odor got stronger. Rachel was coming this way to have her morning protein shake in 3...2...

"Anything interesting happen in the outside world?"

"Gas prices are up, Costco has a sale on cream of mushroom soup if you buy it by the case, and Garfield still doesn't like Mondays."

"Oh," Rachel responded, her voice lacking interest. Hearing the refrigerator door open, Quinn looked up from Family Circus to see Rachel leaned over, her perfect little ass sticking up. Shit! Rachel was wearing her black sports bra and tiny red shorts—the ones that bunched up making an almost thong. "See anything you like?"

"Huh?" Quinn gasped, playing dumb. She didn't know why she was so embarrassed about checking Rachel—her girlfriend—out. In the two and half years that they had been dating, she had seen Rachel's nude body from every angle possible; in addition to licking off vegan chocolate sauce and non dairy whipped cream from her privates. They had even done hings that would make the writer of those poorly written 50 Shades books gasp.

It was almost like the unfaithfulness on her part had caused her to see Rachel in a new light and made her act like the awkward nineteen year old that wondered if the third date was too soon to try some under the sweater, over the bra action.

Rachel pulled out the water pitcher and slammed the door with her perfect ass, looking at Quinn the entire time she did. This was followed by reaching up on her tippy toes to get her vegan protein powder off the top of the fridge (why someone so short left it up there was beyond Quinn), making the muscles in her hamstrings stretch in an oddly enticing way.

The two continued to have an almost starring (and eye fucking) contest while Rachel got her shaker cup, added the water and powder, and commenced to shake the cup, greatly resembling a certain other action. Quinn could—and would—have watched it forever, had it not been for the sudden buzzing of her phone.

"Excuse me," she said, forcing herself to turn away from the oddly erotic scene and down at her out of date Galaxy S2. The screen bore a text from Unknown Number—actually Puckerman. It had been Quinn's idea, just in case Rachel ever stuck her nose where she shouldn't. (Quinn also thought that was a perfect set up for a nose joke—some habits died hard.)

"Who is it?" Rachel asked, making Quinn realize that she had been starring long enough to rouse suspicion.

"Just AT&T sending me a text to refill my account," Quinn lied, pressing delete and destroying all traces that she had ever gotten a text that read: _Can't wait for tonight. Hope Jewish Mama doesn't find out._

"Oh," Rachel said in a way that suggested that she didn't believe her. She grabbed an empty Wendy's cup and started pouring her disgusting shake into it. When about half the mixture was poured, she spoke again. "You have been acting really strange lately." She stopped speaking and dumped the rest of the shake into the cup. "If I didn't know any better I would think that you were sneaking around on me."

Quinn had been drinking her barely warm coffee the same time Rachel uttered those words. After a massive coughing fit and gagging some of it back up—which she forced herself to reswallow, learning in the process that coffee tastes terrible going back down a second time—she shook her head and tried to play it cool, even though she knew that that ship had sailed. "What. How could you think that?" Her voice came out raspy, like when you are forced to talk to an officer after you and your friends lit up a joint in the car. "I would never sneak around on you."

"I know," Rachel said, an odd smile on her lips. Quinn could not figure out if Rachel believed her or just wanted her to think that she believed her. "You would never do anything like that. Again."

Shit! Now Rachel was going down that dark alley. Quinn knew that Rachel would have a field day if she knew that she was being unfaithful with the same guy that she had cheated on Finn with. There just had to be something about Noah that made girls want to risk fucking up their healthy relationships to be with him.

Quinn waited until Rachel started chugging her nasty beverage, knowing from experience that Rachel didn't like the taste, either. Once she was in mid-chug, Quinn spoke. "I know I have been acting a bit weird-" She did not know how to continue.

"Weird for you, or weird in general?" Rachel asked, once she had finished downing her disgusting beverage, a small chocolate mustache now decorating her upper lip.

"Yes." Quinn knew that it didn't make much sense, or any, but she went with it. "It's complicated." That definitely wasn't a lie.

Rachel gave her yet another questioning look—one that said that you aren't telling me everything and I will find out someway. "I am going to hit the shower," she declared before she took her dishes to the sink, taking the time to rinse each one thoroughly before setting it down in the drainer.

"Okay," Quinn agreed, getting a strong vibe that this was not the end of the conversation.

Once Rachel left the room, she pushed away her half eaten oatmeal and went to the coffee pot—a Mr. Coffee 12 cup maker that was received as an apartment warming gift from Kurt and Blaine, likely as a result of Rachel's constant complaints that the one she had was a piece of shit—and after pouring out what was left of her cup in the sink, refilled it to the near brim.

"Ahh," she sighed, letting the warm aroma that only Folgers Classic Roast, one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, could provide. She grabbed her day old bear claw, still in it's greasy bag, and headed to the living room to watch some cartoons.

She had been halfway there when she stepped on something that almost made her trip and spill her coffee and trans fat induced pastry. A glance down revealed it to be the same black sports bra and red shorts that Rachel had been wearing. She found that odd—Rachel was rather anal about putting the clothes in the hamper.

Even stranger—they didn't look like they had been casually discarded by a person that was on her way to the bathroom. They looked like they had been neatly spread out on the floor for someone else to find. But why would Rachel—

"Sorry about that," Rachel's voice said, startling Quinn. Once she made sure that she didn't spill her coffee, she looked up to see Rachel standing in the hallway, dripping wet, a pink towel loosely draped around her nude body. "I forgot to put those away. Could you do it. I would but...you know."

"Right," Quinn agreed, feeling more suspicions than ever. That was an awfully quick shower; Rachel barely had enough time to get wet, much less lather herself up. Shrugging it off, she set down her breakfast on the table and grabbed Rachel's clothes—that were moist with sweat—and headed to the laundry hamper in the bedroom.

It only took a minute—the place was diminutive enough that you could do a full tour in one commercial break. She likened that Rachel didn't account for that, seeing as she caught Rachel doing something with her phone upon her return.

Rachel tried to play it off like she had been wanting to check the time. When Quinn didn't buy that, she then claimed that she was wanting to play Fruit Ninja—which Quinn knew was bullshit—Rachel sucked at that game and made a very vocal vow to never play again after the Barnes and Noble incident.

Quinn attempted to interrogate her further, but Rachel made an excuse to finish her shower and ran back to the bathroom, moving so fast that you would think that she was rushing off to perform open heart surgery.

Now it was plain as day that Rachel knew that something was up. The only question remained was how long could Quinn keep hiding it from her.

* * *

Less than a day, apparently.

That was what Quinn was thinking as she watched a very angry Rachel Berry storm out the building and down the sidewalk. The only thing missing was some comical cartoon fire surrounding her body. "Damn," she sighed, turning back around to face Puckerman, who had been standing there with an odd mixture of confusion and amusement plastered on his face.

"I'll get the bourbon," he said. He headed towards the freezer where he kept his various assortment of hard liquors—the majority that were used for the purpose of making guests of the female nature feel more comfortable about completely disrobing.

"Thanks," she muttered half-heartily. She felt her legs, that had been as wobbly as store brand gelatin the entire time that Rachel had been screaming at her, give out, causing her to collapse onto her hands. She managed to wobble her way to his loveseat—a trick she first learned after Santana had decided to be "funny" and hide her wheelchair—and after a few tries managed to climb up the ugly plaid monstrosity and huddle up, creating a makeshift fetal position.

Once she had calmed down enough to think clearly, she let her mind wander to a few hours earlier when she arrived at the apartment, still in uniform, having just finished her shift. She was going to have a snack of the two eclairs that had been dropped on the floor—and by the three second rule were still safe for consumption—followed by changing and going to her "class", knowing that it would make Rachel, who had been walking on pins and needles since this morning, suspicious if she didn't.

Not that Rachel had even been home, something that Quinn had found strange. Rachel almost always beat her home, other than when tutoring Freshman to make extra cash. And Quinn knew that that hadn't happened—Rachel would never neglect to mention when she got a chance to flaunt her superiority—regardless of how angry she was.

Though Quinn didn't look too much into it, figuring that Rachel could have gone to Kurt and Blaine's place, or possibly went to look in the Tiffany's window for the upteenth time that week, as she knew how Rachel loved to fantasize that she could one day walk in and actually buy something behind the glass. (It also made Quinn think back to their fourth date when they had breakfast at Tiffany's—all they did was eat a package of blueberry Poptarts, but Rachel thought that it was the most romantic gesture ever.)

And later, after Quinn had changed, enjoyed her snack, and updated her facebook page—once she managing to figure out the neighbor's new wifi password—she still saw no signs of Rachel. Though, in retrospect, she realized that she could have called, texted, or emailed her. More than likely it wouldn't have done any good, but she could have done it.

Quinn paused from her thoughts to rise up, keeping her knees pressed firmly against her chest. She racked every portion of her brain, hoping hoping to find out where—or more accurately—when she fucked up.

She did remember that right after she checked to see why no one had bid on her Easter Bunny Troll Doll—that had a very reasonable starting bid of fifty dollars—she decided to head over to Puckerman's place. She took all the usual precocious measures before she left: a few pens and papers strewn on the floor, some school books scattered over the bed, computer left on with some Wikipedia tabs open—all to give the illusion that she was getting in some last minute studying before she left for her "class".

But no matter how she looked at it, Quinn could not for the life of herself figure out how Rachel followed her without being seen. Rachel was tiny, but she was no SEAL Team Six—she couldn't even get up at night to use the bathroom without making a racket.

Feeling a headache coming on, she shrugged it off, figuring that it didn't matter anymore now that the cat was out of the bag, and headed back to the kitchen to, hopefully, down enough booze to forget this whole hellish endeavor ever occurred.

"Name your poison," Puck said to her once she had made her presence. There were several bottles of liquor neatly lined up on the table, as well as a complete set of 80s Ninja Turtle collector shot glasses—the Leonardo and Raphael filled with some type of amber colored liquid.

"Poison sounds really good right now," Quinn said, uttering a loud sigh. She pulled out the closest chair with her foot and flopped down in it. Then, not even caring what it was, she snatched the Raphael glass and downed the liquid in it in one swift gulp—it going down like foul, bitter tasting fire.

"Pace yourself, Q, that's 103 proof," Puck informed. He picked up the Leonardo glass and took a generous sip. "Ahh, Fighting Cock is awesome, in spite of it's homoerotic name."

That made Quinn look up from her self pity. "Am I going crazy or did Noah Puckerman correctly use the word homoerotic?"

"Both," he shrugged, setting his glass down. "You know, something just occurred to me."

"That it is 2015 and the Kardashians are still dominating social media despite the fact that they continue to contribute nothing of quality to society?"

"No, Rachel caught us in the act and we never got to finish."

_No wonder_, she thought, the vivid and painful memories replaying. She could perfectly recall the expression on Rachel's face when she stormed in. She looked more hurt than when Jesse dumped her and more angry than when she didn't get the solo at Sectionals. And there Quinn was with Noah—attempting to speak over Rachel's repeated shouting of "how could you?" She even went the whole, "this isn't what it looks like route!"—even though the hard evidence made it palpable that it was exactly what it looked like.

"So..." he went on. "What do you say?"

She thought about saying no, then figured that it really didn't matter anymore, seeing as it was all out in the open—and outside of Rachel slipping, hitting her head, and forgetting today's events, as if Quinn would be so lucky—there was no going back. "I guess." She figured that she might as well get some pleasure from Noah, as she was not going to get any from Rachel tonight, tomorrow, or possibly ever again.

* * *

"Ahh!" Quinn sighed, and for once was a sigh of feeling total satisfaction, rather than a sigh of despair.

"That's what I like to hear," Puck said with a smug grin. "You ready for round two?"

"So soon?"

"I am always ready to go again."

"Well, if you don't need to recharge."

"I don't."

"Alright," she agreed, the guilt starting to come back in large strides. "You know that this is all your fault, don't you?"

"You aren't innocent. I didn't exactly force you to...you know."

"Yeah," Quinn agreed, a smile appearing, despite her disconcerted state of mind. "But if you weren't so good at what you did I would have stopped coming back for more."

"What can I say? It's a gift and a curse."

The curse part was right; her relationship with Rachel was almost certainly over...and even if it wasn't it would be hard to recover from something as colossal as being unfaithful. _Damn_, she silently cursed, wishing a billion times over that she didn't ruin the best thing in her life for a few minutes of pleasure—albeit, intense pleasure.

Now everything she had with Rachel was all gone.

And all because she couldn't say no—

.

.

.

to bacon.

Bacon. It was her kryptonite. And like the infamous quote from Cinderella—the band, not the fairy tale that Disney ruined—you don't know what you got till it's gone.

That was more than true. She never realized she took bacon for granted until it was gone—in her case because what had happened right after she moved in with Rachel.

She could still perfectly recap what went down.

* * *

"Lift with your legs," Rachel had ordered Puck Jr. (actually Jake, but the original members of the New Directions could only see him as a younger version of Noah, Quinn especially), while he attempted to lift a very large box. Quinn also took notice that he seemed to curl the box to make his uncovered biceps look bigger whenever Kitty or that Marley girl was watching. Not that either one of them appeared to give a fuck; they only seemed to have eyes for one another—something that made Quinn feel an eerie sense of déjà vu.

Quinn snickered at Rachel—who had done almost nothing but criticize. It had been her idea to gather up all the previous New Directioners who lived in New York—which was surprisingly almost all of them, as they all had a rather unhealthy fixation with one another—to help them move and unpack their shit.

Quinn didn't mind though. She enjoyed seeing the old gang, and the new old gang that she never really bothered to get to know. It was especially nice to see whom was dating whom; just about every New Directioner was romantically involved with a fellow New Directioner, making Quinn think that they were more inbred than the Royal Family.

"We better get some grub for this," Santana called out from the boxes that she had stacked together to form a makeshift armchair. She was holding a bottle of Mike's Hard Iced Tea in one hand, while using the other to flip through the magazine that was resting on her lap. "I didn't break my back and ruin my manicure for nothing."

"Rach is getting pizza when this is all done," Quinn informed. She refrained from letting Santana know that she hadn't earned the right to eat the loose pepperoni that fell on the floor.

When Santana didn't respond, Quinn went through the rest of the place to check up on the others, having assigned jobs that each of her friends were best suited for. She passed by Tina and Mercedes who were unpacking dishes; Mike, Unique, and Ryder who were moving around furniture while Unique kept having "creative splurs' and ordered the guys to move it again, much to their annoyance; and out the window she could see Artie—stuck wheeling things from the U-Haul to the door, as this building lacked an elevator or a ramp.

She didn't know where Kurt and Blaine were, but she knew that they were in charge of decorating, and for some reason (she likened that Rachel was involved) were allowed complete creative control over all rooms—except the bedroom, because she would be damned if she got stuck looking at a Gucci rug or some shit like that.

It was really coming together.

On her way back through, she was going to stop for some lemonade when she spotted her lovely girlfriend yelling at Brittany for dropping her tea set. And when it looked like Santana was about to maim Rachel for doing so, Quinn quickly came to her rescue and dragged Rachel away before Santana got a chance to put her size six-and-a-half boot in a place that Rachel wouldn't like.

"Can you believe this?" Quinn said to her, once they were far away from Santana and her fiery Latina temper.

"I know, how could Brittany be so clumsy. Did you know that she cracked my best-" Rachel started but never got to finish, as Quinn quickly pressed her lips against those of Rachel's—both to calm her down and shut her up, though mostly the latter.

Quinn eventually broke them apart, the two sets of lips making a small popping noise as they separated. She pulled a confused looking Rachel closer to her, looping her long arms around Rachel's midsection, followed by planting a kiss on her forehead.

A forehead kiss was her signature move—Rachel couldn't do it, being shorter than her and all. "That's not what I meant," she informed, then added, "I can't believe we are really doing all this—not that I am not totally thrilled, because I am." She added that last part for safe measure, just in case Rachel felt like rehashing their previous brunch "argument".

"Neither can I," Rachel said, her voice and demeanor having changed to that of a shaky, nervous teenager—much like the Rachel Berry that Quinn met (and fell in love with but never did anything about) in high school.

Quinn couldn't think of anything else to say, so she just stood there, occasionally running a finger through Rachel's silky, brown locks while Rachel had her face pressed into her chest. She felt at peace, even in all the moving chaos. Nothing could ruin her-

"Hey!" called out what sounded like Ryder. "What does Gilefrag mean?"

"Gilefrag?" Rachel questioned, pulling herself away, much to Quinn's annoyance. She stood there for a second—possibly less—before her eyes lit up like she just discovered the cure to cancer. "Dammit, that's fragile." She scurried off to save whatever it was that the idiots had broken; all while Quinn watched in amusement.

* * *

Quinn paused from her thoughts for a moment to take another shot of liquor; this time opting for tequila. She selected a vintage 2009 Don Eduardo Anejo, mainly because it was the only tequila that Puck had—save half a bottle of Cuervo Gold that had something floating in it—and Quinn was not about to take that chance—especially if that was with she thought it was.

Once she downed a shot of the stuff—it being even more foul tasting than the bourbon—she resumed in her thoughts. (She also realized that she recalled a lot of irrelevant information, not unlike a certain T.V. character who took eight seasons to tell his kids how he met their mother.)

* * *

"Goddammit," Quinn groaned when her eyes opened, feeling immense pain in nearly every muscle in her body; some that she didn't know that she possessed. It was not surprising, given the workout she got—not from lifting boxes; she save saved that for the men. No, it was from afterwords when everyone left, and her and Rachel had the whole place to themselves. They very well had to celebrate the momentous occasion. And what better way to do so than by fornicating in all the rooms?

After checking on Rachel, who was sleeping like a baby, Quinn managed to stand, with immense difficulty, and stagger to the kitchen—each step being more painful than the last thanks to her sore quads and hamstrings.

Now being a former chubby girl turned gymnast/dancer turned cheerleading captain, she was well versed in fitness and nutrition science, and knew that the soreness was caused by tiny tears in the muscle tissue that needed to be repaired with adequate protein consumption. And what better source of protein than good ol' bacon with some eggs on the side?

But upon opening the freezer—whose cold air felt good on her sore muscles—she was appalled to see that her precious fatty meat was no where in sight. And neither was her Hungryman fried chicken dinners, three pack of rib-eye steak, and the half of a Digorno Supreme pizza that she had been saving.

She overreacted at first, assuming that she was robbed. But after calming down, she realized that even the stupidest robber in the world wouldn't break in and steal meat—much less frozen meat.

She then accounted for the possibility that it had been misplaced in the move and assumed that it had been in the refrigerator part. But after checking there, as well as all the cabinets, the stove, and even the microwave, she concluded that her precious meats were gone—possibly forever.

Now the only question that remained was who. And why? Okay, that was two questions, but the point remained.

She considered that one of the gang could have stolen it, but she saw every single one of them leave—none who had been carrying anything.

It was also possible that one, or more, of them had eaten her food while they were still there. But that was even less likely, as the gang had been stuffing themselves with pizza, bread-sticks, wings, and in Rachel's case, a salad.

It was at that very second that it hit her like two tons of bricks; Rachel did something with her precocious animal by-products. And Quinn was not about to let that go. "What the fuck?!" she loudly screamed, having stormed into the bedroom where Rachel was sprawled out on the bed, the midsection of her her naked body covered by the blanket.

The loud scream made Rachel bolt up, a scared look on her face."Huh? Is there a fire?"

"No," Quinn responded. "Where is my bacon. And the rest of my shit?" She did not even care that she was taking a harsh tone with her girlfriend; she was too damn infuriated.

"Oh that, I threw it out," Rachel casually responded, acting as if it was no big deal that she tossed out all of Quinn's favorite foods. "I don't want us eating meat, especially pork."

Quinn tried counting to ten, but that didn't help; it was doubtful that counting to a trillion would have. She just stood there, fuming. You could have roasted marshmallows off her—she was that angry. "What the hell am I supposed to eat? You threw out half my food!"

Rachel looked confused for a moment, then a naughty smile appeared on her face. "I got something that you can eat," she said huskily, spreading her legs to give Quinn a perfect view of her womanhood, her pubes neatly trimmed in a small, brown patch that vaguely resembled a heart if you looked at the right angle.

Quinn was taken back, having not been expecting that response—at all. She looked at Rachel but with disgust and disdain; she had never looked so unattractive to her, and that included the time that she had a stuffy nose and was coughing up green phlegm. "No thanks," she said, walking out of the bedroom—surprisingly calm, all things considered.

Quinn had spent the next several hours at a seedy bar, slamming down cheap draft beers and being forced to view non-stop sports that ranged from football to bass fishing. At some point, Quinn didn't know when—as you can get surprisingly drunk when you have had nothing but peanuts, pretzels, and what tasted like a watered down Miller Lite—Rachel found her, dragged her home, and then had her way with her. (Okay, that last part was exaggerated; Rachel just stripped her of her filthy clothes and put her to bed, but Quinn would have consented if given the option.)

* * *

"Order up," said Puck in the voice of a fry cook that worked at a second-rate greasy spoon diner, snapping Quinn out of her daze. He brought over the frying pan that contained the sizzling strips and used his spatula—that looked like it could use a long bath in dish liquid—to set them down on Quinn's Styrofoam plate.

"You could use a paper towel, you know," she pointed out when she saw that the hot grease was burning several small holes in the cheap Styrofoam.

"Spoils the flavor," he responded. He took the pan and dumped the grease into a small jar on the counter that was already halfway full with grease. Quinn had saw him do that three times before but never asked, figuring that she was better off not knowing.

She looked down at the strips of saturated fat; it was the sole reason she was in this mess and now she wanted to hurl it across the room—not that she was going to, because not eating this delicious bacon wouldn't bring Rachel back and make everything hunky dory.

As she picked up the fattiest slice—her favorite—and started chewing it slowly, she recalled the last part of the story, happening not long after Rachel picked her up. They ended up having a long, drawn out argument about how Rachel didn't want to violate her vegan beliefs and her Jewish heritage by defiling Kosher—and in Rachel's words: "You are violating the beliefs that my people have kept sacred for thousands of years. Haven't we suffered enough?"

And then, after some more arguing and Quinn spending two nights on the cramped sofa, they mutually decided (Quinn will go to her grave swearing that it was mutual) that no more meat, especially pork, would be brought into their apartment.

And thus, here she was.

_You are all I have left_, she thought, picking up another slice and biting off half of it. She had been mid-chew when something occurred to her. "Wait a minute," she said to Puck, who was frying more bacon. "You are Jewish, too. Why are you eating bacon?"

"I don't follow Kashrut," he responded, shrugging his slightly muscular shoulders as he spoke. "If God doesn't want us eating pigs, he shouldn't have made them so damn tasty." As if to drive this point home, he picked up a piece of the still frying bacon and ate it, grease and all.

That answer surprised Quinn. It made her wish that Rachel could have that sort of mindset. It almost—repeat almost—made her wonder that she might have been happy if she had tried to work things out with Noah post Beth. Rachel may be the most beautiful person in the world (both inner and outer), but it still killed Quinn that she had to go to such extreme lengths just to get some decent food in her system. But she would never date Noah...again. That clearly wasn't meant to be—in spite of their child and shared love of heart disease inducing meats.

It got quiet after that. Quinn finished her bacon in silence, then watched Puck eat his right out of the pan, as even at 22 he still disregarded hygiene.

"Why do you do this?" she asked, just as he shoved the last slice into his mouth. "We both know there is a negative twenty percent chance of you getting sex. And half the time I don't even reimburse you for what I eat." It had never really dawned on her before as to why he had ever agreed to this; she knew that she wouldn't have, had the roles been reversed.

That seemed to catch him off guard. And as he was swallowing, he appeared to get his bacon stuck in his throat. Quinn watched, but did nothing, as he downed some kind of bubbly liquid from a jelly glass till the lump went down and he gasped for breath. Once his composure was regained, he turned back to her. "I care about you, Q. You are the momma to my girl, you are one of my closest friends, and you treat my Jewish Princess right."

"Do you think that Rachel will forgive me?" she asked softly.

"She'll come around," he assured. "In the meantime what say we kick things up a notch?" He gestured at his assortment of liquors that had barely been touched in light of recent bacon circumstances.

Quinn ran her non greasy fingers through her blond locks, making herself a mental note to touch up on the roots that were starting to show brown. "What the hell. Booze me up."

"That's what I like to here," he said, a little too eagerly, making Quinn believe that he did have ulterior motives, after all—not that it was going to stop her from getting totally shit-faced. (It never did.)

* * *

Three drinks in and she was amazed that her bra was still on.

Five drinks in and she could hardly believe that her panties weren't hanging on a lamp shade.

Eight drinks in and she was starting to get offended that she was still fully dressed.

Ten drinks in and she didn't give a fuck...about anything.

"Eye...I...tink I'm feelin betta," she slurred mindlessly. She managed—with immense difficulty—to grasp the bottle of icy-cold, clear colored liquid that had been resting between her legs. (And admittedly felt really nice against her lady parts.) When she could not muster the strength to pour her clear colored liquid—possibly vodka—straight down her throat, she opted to pour it into her Donatello glass—some of it actually making it there; a rather impressive feat considering she had lost her vision sometime between the eighth and ninth drink.

"I'm not saying that Cameron ripped me off..." he stuttered, having been having his own conversation sometime around his seventh drink and second beer, "But I had the idea for Avatar first. Where's my three billion dollars?"

She giggled stupidly and somehow managed to down the liquid in her glass.

And shot ten-and-a-half (possibly ten-and-three-quarters) proved to be her absolute limit—evident by everything suddenly going dark.

An unknown time later, she heard voices—assuming it to be voices in her head, she thought nothing of it and listened with mild interest.

"Where is she?"

"Q? You see that puddle of vomit and booze, she is in there?"

"What happened here?"

"We decided to unwind with some choice tidbits."

"What?"

"We had booze and bacon, not necessarily in that order."

"Why has Quinn been doing this?"

"You won't let her have her bacon. Q loves her bacon. A lot. I mean a lot. Like more than-"

"I get it! So she has been sneaking over here all this time. And all you do is eat bacon?"

"Not just that. Sometimes, we have burgers or chicken. And once I fixed up a mess of ribs—found this kick-ass mesquite recipe online—see you take some orange juice and-"

"You know what I mean—have you guys been...sleeping together?"

"Well, once we fell asleep while watching Mad Men. That's a pretty good show. I especially like when-"

"Noah, please tell me why! Is Quinn unhappy in our relationship?"

"Are you...in..ins...dumb? Quinn is heels over head for you. Or is it feet over head? Wait I got it!"

"Noah!"

"What? And it was head over-"

"Is this really just about bacon. I offered to fix her tofu bacon."

"I told you that Q loves her bacon. That tofu shit tastes like feet. And I would know. Don't ask—actually do ask. It's a funny story. See, I was at a frat party and-"

"I didn't know that bacon meant that much to Quinn. I would never have forbid it."

"Maybe that has something to do with it, you know?"

"What?"

"You guys are supposed to be partners...like...as in...equals. And you making all the decisions isn't exactly equal. Or maybe it is. I never was good at math. Algebra especially. I remember once it said to find X and I-"

"Thanks, Noah. You have been a big help, but if you don't mind I am going to take her home now. You should get some rest."

"I am totally sober. I will even drive you and your two twin sisters home. Just as soon as you stop spinning around."

The next thing that Quinn knew, she was being lifted up, or possibly the ground under her was moving; she didn't know. But she did know that she heard: "Someone needs to cut back on the bacon."

That was also the last thing she heard before she felt everything grow even darker. And she could have sworn that she saw a bright light that appeared to be getting closer. And closer...

* * *

Much later, she learned that she wasn't dead. But after the first trip to the toilet, she found that death would have been sweet relief when compared to upchucking multicolored vomit that had a multitude of vile tastes and odors.

By the third trip, she decided to cut out the middleman and just stay huddled over the toilet, flushing whenever the stench got too intolerable.

And sometime after she emptied her stomach of everything she ever ate, her eyes started closing again...

The next time her eyes opened, she found that she was lying on some soft sheets and had a pillow under her head. She didn't know how that she woke up in a bed—not that she cared, being more concerned with how painful sun rays felt. It also could have been her churning stomach or throbbing head.

When she finally mustered up enough strength to move more than her eyelids, she rolled over to the left—her preferred side—where she was delighted to find that a glass of bubbling water, probably 7 Up—the soda of choice, Rachel's that was; she was a Dr Pepper person herself—and two aspirin, placed neatly next to the soda. They were both quickly consumed.

After that, it didn't take long for her to get drowsy again—the aspirin must have been the kind that had added sleep aid. She soon saw the familiar bright light. And this time she didn't feel scared and actually embraced its warm subsistence.

* * *

"What is that smell?" Quinn asked, bolting upright. She didn't get a response—since there was no one else in the room. She took another whiff of the air, getting a better idea of what it was.

Curiously following the scent like a cartoon character, she ended up in the kitchen. Actually, she stopped about five feet from the kitchen to rub her eyes twice. She had to make sure that she wasn't still drunk and hallucinating that sitting there on the front right burner of the stove was a skillet filled with sizzling bacon frying in it's own savory fat.

It was astounding and extraordinary and Quinn instantly forgot about it.

No, she didn't get a delayed blackout from all that bourbon, tequila, and possibly vodka that her liver was likely still straining to filter. She just saw something even better than fried pig fat—namely Rachel Berry clad in a frilly, pink-laced apron, tending to the fried pig fat.

Quinn was about to attempt to use her vocal chords—being eighty-five percent positive that they still worked. But she never got a chance to attempt to do so—thanks to Rachel turning her body just enough to give Quinn a view of her backside: the long, shiny brown locks, currently tied in a ponytail; the smooth back with no muscle tone whatsoever; and the real shocker, her glorious, perfectly shaped ass— uncovered for Quinn to admire.

Rachel Berry wearing nothing but an apron while cooking bacon. This just went from the shittiest night/day/night (Quinn didn't know how long she was out) to the best fucking day ever—save maybe the day that Rachel let her do that one thing. (And Rachel made it clear that that was _never _happening again.)

"You just going to stand there all day?" Rachel said, talking just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the sizzle.

Quinn didn't know how—but the next thing she knew—she was standing behind Rachel, her extra height giving her just enough leeway to look over Rachel's bare shoulder. "Mhh, my two favorite things." She sighed with content, inhaling the combined aroma of the meat and Rachel's honey and melon shampoo.

"And from now on you can enjoy them together." Before Quinn could respond to that, Rachel used her plastic fork to pick up the biggest, juiciest slice of bacon and held it out, the fat dripping into a small puddle on the stove.

Quinn didn't hesitate to bend down and take a bite—not even accounting that it was hot and greasy. It was amazing—the second best thing that she ever ate involving Rachel. "Mhh," she moaned mid-chew. She didn't even care that the grease had burned her tongue; it was too fucking good!

"That is the first time that I ever put that look on your face," Rachel grinned smugly. "Well, in the bedroom anyway." She paused for a second. "Actually, there was that one time on the table when I-"

"Rach, don't ruin the mood," Quinn interrupted. She ran three of her fingers over Rachel's left check to let her know that she wasn't hostile—she just didn't want to kill this mood with unnecessary chatter.

Rachel nodded in response and resumed her feeding, taking careful precision to let some of the fat drip off before holding it to Quinn's eager mouth. Quinn tried to replicate the action, but Rachel refused, keeping her mouth clamped tightly for the first—and most likely—last time.

Shortly after the fourth piece, Quinn was overcome with a bout of stupidity. "Oh, and if you ever run into Sam don't believe a word he says. We have not been having an affair, and I am not carrying his unborn child." When Rachel did not laugh and even clenched her free hand into a fist, Quinn backed away from the still hot skillet—better safe than sorry.

"Too soon," Rachel growled.

"Sorry," Quinn apologized, holding her head down. She had figured that it was a bad idea—even as it left her mouth.

Rachel spoke again. "You do know that if you ever sneak around again I will end your life slowly and painfully." She smiled the entire time she spoke, but Quinn knew that she was serious and gulped to let Rachel know that she understood. "Now, what do you say we go back to bed?" She didn't wait for a response and pulled away from Quinn before walking towards the bedroom—her perfect ass jiggling with each step.

Quinn looked from her gorgeous, almost naked girlfriend to the skillet full of bacon. Bacon or Rachel? Rachel or bacon?

"You can bring the bacon!" Rachel called out.

That made that decision easier. It wasn't long before Quinn was rushing to the bedroom—a paper towel covered plate of bacon in her hands and a head filled with thoughts about whether or not bacon could be incorporated into foreplay.

It looked like she was about to find out.


End file.
